


Forgiven.

by aurelacs



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Light Angst, Mirage owns a bar in this one, Other, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurelacs/pseuds/aurelacs
Summary: Your boss has been acting off the last few months: distant, cold, always in his office. Until the Apex Games came on.





	Forgiven.

Customers overflowed the bar. Every booth, stool, and floorboard occupied as patrons kept in close proximity. The bar had only two flat screen televisions, one of which had a loose cable, so the picture would occasionally flurry in and out. You had trouble keeping up with all the orders and cocktails and drinks being yelled at you. It would’ve been easier had your boss decided to show up to work, but he was mysteriously missing in action. You noticed that he had seemed off for the past couple of months: leaving early, arriving late, not showing up at all only to call a few hours into your shift to say he would be late, and then never arrive. When he did come in, he would have his “buddies” do all his work. You’d hear him toil away on something in his office. When he left, he’d be covered in what looked like oil or grease. Once, when you pried, he uncharacteristically snapped at you. Told you to mind your damn business, that he was your boss, not the other way around. He apologized immediately after. The light glimmered in his eyes, wet with sorrow, and you apologized back. Since then, you chose to keep your distance. You pretended it hurt him as much as it hurt you.

“Would you turn it up,” a customer barked.

You hustled behind the bar to grab the remotes. Both televisions were turned on to the pre-game analysis of the Apex tournament. Groups of patrons would cheer as their preferred Champion appeared on screen. Someone booed when an announcer mentioned they were doubtful Gibraltar would win. You made your way around the bar, making sure no one needed to put in another order or another refill. When you finished, you ducked into your boss’s office and made a call. It immediately went to voicemail.

_“Hey, it’s Elliott. I can’t come to the phone right now, I’m too busy being beautiful. Was that good? Can I change it? Wait how do I-“ _

It was the most you had heard his voice in weeks. You thought about how you missed it. But the only thing that kept you from losing it was thinking about the different ways you could chew him out the next time he decided to show his face at his bar. Already, hoards of people pushed their way toward you for more drinks. You reeked of beer. Your head pounded. Elliott be damned, you thought.

“Last call before the Games start.” Your voice barely carried throughout. Those who did hear started to complain. They rolled like waves over the patrons until it was all you could hear.

“Hey! I need a break, too. Drinks’ll resume when the game ends.” The waves dulled to ripples. You could still hear people grumbling, but they kept it to a minimum as you topped off their drinks. Every other Apex Game you’ve worked since you started, you had help. Elliot would tend bar, chat up every customer about the Games like he knew them. He would pull you to the side every once in a while and whisper in your ear about how a competitor was doing. The Games weren’t really your thing, but you would let him talk about them for hours if it meant being able to see his eyes light up as he spoke. If you thought hard enough through the chaos, you could even smell him (earthy, warm, like home), feel the static run through you whenever he touched your back, lightly, to tell you a customer needed help. You wondered if he noticed that you only picked up your paychecks on your days off.

You still had feelings for Elliott over a year later. Ones you tried to suppress. A smile from him would send you over, leaving your face red for the rest of your shift. It was a bad idea: confronting the static by facing it head on with a bottle of wine split between the two of you at his apartment. He touched your hands, “accidentally” brushed his against your thighs enough times that when you mustered up the courage to kiss him, he received it like a drowning sailor finally reaching the surface. You still felt a hand in your hair. You could trace the warmth of his arm around your back, pulling you closer. His mouth lighting your skin aflame. When you woke the next morning, he apologized to you and chastised himself. It was unprofessional. Amazing. Unethical. It can’t leave the apartment. When you tried to kiss him one last time he held you away, firmly, more so than his voice when he told you to leave. He apologized, again, more firm than the last. You saw in his eyes that he didn’t want you to leave. For a month after that, you kept your distance at the bar. Looking him in the eyes would redden your face for the rest of the day.

You still dreamt about him, about that night.

It made you ache to think that maybe, just maybe, Elliott still liked you back. You convinced yourself that he spoke to you differently than other employees or customers. He spoke slower, with more intention. Your coworkers talked about a “weird” stutter he had that you only heard once. Innocent brushes that seemed to happen most often to you. The days you came in to pick up your check, you’d end up staying for an extra couple of hours, just talking to him. He’d invent new drinks for you to try, his eyes eagerly watching you to see if you liked them.

You idly paid attention to the TV, stuck in your Elliott-filled thoughts. The broadcasters began announcing the squads, trios, randomly chosen. You heard some customers curse under their breaths at what they thought was a poor matchup, clap at good ones. And then they went wild. The cheers pulled you back to reality, towards the TV. You watched as vaguely familiar names appeared on screen: Wraith, Pathfinder, Mirage.

“After a two year hiatus, the Games’ favorite trickster is back! Mirage played into his namesake and suddenly disappeared after a devastating loss to then up-and-comer Bloodhound. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say I’m excited to see what he’s got up his sleeve.”

The squad’s banner cards flashed up on the screen and you nearly dropped your beer. There he was. On his banner was a loop of him blowing a kiss and giving finger guns. Next to the loop were some of his stats: thousands of kills, hundreds of wins. How did you never notice? Elliott barely looked like himself. His hair was down and perfectly curled. He wore gloves that covered his finger tattoos and goggles that served more as a poor fashion choice than actual utility. The way he posed made you think he wanted everyone to see the scars that littered his face. Before you knew it, all the squads were in the dropship, ready to jump.

———

Your heart continued to race long after the Games ended. The crowds were mostly gone by the time you announced last call. The stillness filled you and echoed hollow through your body. Mirage won his squad the match, using his decoys to flank Caustic and take him out. Everyone cheered so loud your ears rang. Caught up in the moment, you gave the whole bar a free round.

You cleaned the tables, dried the glasses. Before you swept, you locked up and turned on the ancient jukebox. You hummed along, letting the music flow through you as you swayed to the slow beat. Song after song played. Barely any sweeping got done as you danced to the music. The sound of the lock clicking out of place brought you out of your trance. You raised the broom above your head, ready to attack.

“What the hell?”

You relaxed your grip on the broomstick, but renewed anger kept it above your head. Elliott stood in the doorway, dressed in the clothes you knew him in. His hair was back up, tied in a loose bun, out of his face. In the dim light, you could see the fresh cuts on his face and arms. A smile danced loosely on his face and while he looked happy, you could see the exhaustion radiating off of him. He slumped the duffel bag off his shoulder. He winced when he heard the clang of his holo-devices hitting the hardwood floor. He approached you, slowly, trying to hide a slight limp. He got close enough that you could smell the sweat breaking through his cologne.

“Let’s put this down, yeah?” Elliott gently reached for the broom and leaned it against the bar. The two of you made eye contact. You wondered if he could hear how fast your heart was beating. You hoped he could see how pissed you were.

“I-I’m sorry. Really.” You kept silent. “I was worried I’d jinx it if I told anyone.”

“You left me alone to cover the bar during the Games.”

He looked confused, almost stunned. “I asked Angie to come in.”

“Well, she didn’t.” He sighed.

“The last time I played, I nearly died. I thought it would be best if I retired, stopped cheating death, stopped giving my mom a heart attack every time I went out. But I missed it. And the bar needed the money.” He reached down and took your hand in his. “Can you forgive me?”

You didn’t want to. Your body, aching from hours upon hours on your feet, told you to tell him to fuck off, leave him to finish closing up his bar for the night. You sighed and looked him in the eyes. They still shined in the dim light. He seemed so earnest, so eager for your approval. The smile continued to play on his full lips. Your mind, full of longing and riddled with thoughts of Elliott, reminded you that you knew how soft they were. How it felt to have them envelope yours. His touched burned your hand, leaving finger shaped scars on the back of your palm, tracing their way back to your spine where they held onto you all those months ago.

Elliott pulled away from you and walked to the jukebox, pausing the song that was playing. He flipped through the selection, mumbling to himself. _Shit_. Did you miss your moment? Was this it? You cursed yourself for letting the time pass. You should’ve forgiven him. You should’ve ignored the sting in your feet, the ache in your arms.

“I understand,” he said, turning so his back faced the jukebox. “Would I be pushing my luck asking for forgiveness for a different reason?”

“I can think of several.”

“Okay that’s fair. But I’m thinking of a sp-speci-sp… certain one.”

He hit the “play” button, letting the music fill the bar once more. It was slow, sweet, full of intent. Elliott reached out his hand for you to take. There were calluses at the top of his palm. When you played your hand in his, he gently pulled you close; your torsos pressed together, his other hand on the small of your back. You could feel his heart beat against yours. He swayed the two of you to the light tempo. Elliott sighed.

“How about a couple warm up apologies?” You giggled and agreed.

“I’m sorry for not hiring someone that will actually come in.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“I’m sorry for being a terrible person the past couple of months.”

You pretended to think about it to keep him on edge. “You’re forgiven. This time,” you said when he started to look genuinely distressed. He squeezed your hand when you did. He spun the two of you, slowly, deliberately, during the chorus. Cautiously, he leaned his head against yours. You let him.

After the song ended, Elliott took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry for kicking you out that one night. I regret it. A lot. And of all the things you could forgive me for, this is the one I really, really hope you do.”

You tilted your head forward, close enough for your lips to brush against his.

“You’re forgiven.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bit of a rush job, so I apologize if this seems a bit clunky or rushed. I also haven’t really written in years. All I ask for is patience. The songs “K.” by Cigarettes After Sex and “Angels” by The xx served as light inspiration for this. Hope y’all liked it.


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